


A Handful

by nana135980



Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:29:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6306580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nana135980/pseuds/nana135980
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short works pertaining to Howon and/or Dongwoo.  Some are angst, some are fluff, some are nonsense, the whole ten yards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drink You Away

“I think I need something,” Howon tries, the words stumbling out of his mouth like little soldiers marching into a fire. 

The doctor looks him in the eye, cocking an eyebrow.

“Which is?”

“…anti-depressants or something…maybe amnesia inducing pills-”

“-Howon, have you been drinking?” the doctor cuts him off, flattening the clipboard on his chest. 

He sits there patiently, like a mother would hold her tongue, waiting for the child’s confession.  “Howon.  There’s nothing wrong with you, you’re just drunk.”

Howon’s trying to focus on one of the doctors in his vision, but damn why do they all look the same?  He drank a little…a lot…how many bottles was it again?

“No.  What day, what’s today?”

The doctor sighs, scribbling something on that clipboard.  “Today’s Tuesday.  The 14th.  I’m going to call you a cab and give you some aspirin.  The only thing you should be drinking for the rest of the night is water, understood?”  With that he walks away, the door flopping and shutting behind him.

Damn doctor.

Howon’s staring through the bottle, looking for the last drop.  He smashes his lips on the bottleneck, tilting it upwards with his head, sucking it dry.  He’s gonna need another one for sure.

It’s probably late at night, he can’t really tell, but he’s pretty sure he’s leaped over drunk, crashing down in an out-of-your-damn-mind-Howon state.  This wasn’t a fucking hangover.

The buttons on the phone seem so hard to find, his finger jutting the air instead of the touch screen, hitting and missing as he searched for that name, the reason for all the mayhem in his life.  It rings, Howon crying victory ahead.

“What?”  A groggy voice emerges from the side.

“When are you coming back?”

A heavy breath comes out.  “Howon, get it through your thick, stubborn, head—I’m not coming back.  Do you even know what time it is??”

Howon’s head is pounding, and no, he doesn’t _care_ what time it is.

“Please”

“No”

“Please.  I take back everything I said.  I’m going fucking insane baby, please”

“No”

“Dongwoo—”

“—I’m not answering you again.”  The line cuts off abruptly, and Howon can’t move in his skin.  He calls again, once, twice, how many bottles has it been now? 

He’ll need to drown himself in another one to get through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drink you away by JT


	2. I Found a Martyr in My Bed Tonight

It was a young boy’s room.  Trophies piled on a dusty shelf, posters covered the baby blue walls, and the natural disaster of strewn clothes covered half the floor.  The fan hummed above them on the bed, spiraling a soft wind to battle the scorching heat of the evening.  A wooden drawer-dresser with a mirror on top faced the bed, a third of its drawers open, clothes spilled out from the edges. 

Dongwoo rested his head on Howon’s chest, staring at the mirror across them.  He watches Howon breathing, his head laid back, gently tilted to the left, a mess of jet black strings draping over closed eyes.  Peace washed over his face, a blanket of serenity covering him that dissipated spontaneously when it wasn’t just the two of them.

It’s hypnotizing, looking into the clear glass, trying to find meaning for a life he never bothered to question.  He lets his fingers play with the hem of Howon’s shirt, peeling the shirt off and then covering him back up, slowly and repeatedly in a trance, as if he’d find some answers written on the skin beneath. 

Howon shifts his head, now to the right, and tucks his chin in the softness of Dongwoo’s sandy hair.  The more Dongwoo lets himself think, the less it makes sense to him.  He had never thought beyond the moment; it was always his habit to live in the _now_ , and let the future run its course without his care.  But the future meant Howon leaving, going off to serve his duty, his country, all too soon and in the close break of dawn next morning.

Dongwoo understands why—or at least, he thinks he does.  Howon was a proud man now with the fighting spirit of a wild animal, and his pride pulled him by the reigns, always leading his actions before his thoughts.  Of course, Dongwoo admired that side of him; yet he despised it at the same time, because now he has to let him go.  He has to dig him out from under his skin and out of his veins, claw him away from the farthest corners of his heart, and freeze it in time and hopes of a safe return.

If he returns at all.

His eyes turn to tainted glass at the thought; hazed, murky, and etched in a sadness that stemmed from his core. 

“Stop it Dongwoo.”  

His voice slow but reprimanding, in the same control Howon always had over him.

For once, Dongwoo thinks he’s right, and decides to agree with him.  Then he also decides that he has to imprint himself in Howon’s memory, like a tattoo too dark and thick to be erased, like a reason for him to come back, to keep his promises and make his wishes come true.

Dongwoo exhales in a long, heavy, sigh, and Howon finally opens his eyes now.  He could feel the slender fingers wandering in the trenches of his chest, and the weight of Dongwoo’s leg on top of his reminds him that they’re still here. 

Soon, he finds Dongwoo’s fingers playing and tugging in the hair trailing down his lower abdomen, gliding past the left side of his pelvis to his thigh.  The hand rests gently on his thigh, the thumb pressing in slow circles through the fabric to his skin.

It stirs the urge in Howon to cry, to let his ego burst and dissolve, to let himself simply crumble under Dongwoo’s touch.  He closes his eyes, letting his head sink back in the pillow, his muscles relaxing into the soft mattress.  The bed stirs, and he feels the heat of Dongwoo leaving his side, only to scorch his chest with palms rubbing into the skin under his shirt.  He feels them roughly colliding with the dry tips of his nipples, and it makes him frown, his arms blindly finding their way to rake in Dongwoo’s hair. 

He doesn’t want to see him yet, so he keeps himself in the darkness, letting his other senses take over.  Dongwoo lazily pulls up Howon’s shirt, letting the cool air hit with his chest, waiting until he shudders in anticipation, and then comes a subtle push of his hands to the back of his head. 

Dongwoo obliges, opening his mouth, breathing heavily on top of the left side of Howon’s chest before his lips graze over the protruding lap of pink skin.  He darts his tongue to the tip of a nipple, giving Howon a small taste, and then lazily drags his tongue around and around in circles, eyeing the way Howon’s veins pop in his neck.  His tongue laps, wet and warm, looping around again until the pink bud perks tall.  His forefinger finds the tip, brushing over it, slipping around and pressing down, eliciting a grunt from somewhere deep in Howon’s throat.  But Howon still had his eyes closed.

He drags his hand roughly over Howon’s chest, all the way up to the neck, fingers gripping across his face possessively. 

“Look at me.”  Dongwoo’s voice is rasp, but he wants Howon to watch.  He wants Howon to remember them like this, to remember how much he loves him.

Howon barely opens his eyes, his mouth still slightly ajar, his face overwhelmed with a delicious lust that sends shocks down Dongwoo’s skin, awakening his own drive.

Howon reaches out, his hands finding Dongwoo’s face, his thumb tracing over the side of the jaw, running to his lips, and slipping inside Dongwoo’s mouth.  He feels Dongwoo’s tongue, wet and warm around his thumb, starting to suck languidly.  Dongwoo’s hips pull forward, and Howon pulls his thumb out, grabbing Dongwoo by the head and pushing him flush tight to crash their lips together.

There was always something intoxicating about the way Dongwoo tasted that Howon could not quite put his finger on—all he knew was that he could never get enough.  Not even when he raises his chest, pulling down Dongwoo’s chin to burrow further with his tongue, their heavy breaths mingling together as they struggled to breathe.  Even after Dongwoo pulls back, Howon’s latching onto the lower lip, taking it in his teeth, nibbling on the sides and then kissing him senseless all over again.

There’s a lull in time, where Dongwoo takes the break to sit on Howon’s chest, his knees digging into the bed.  Howon watches him intently, propped up on his elbows, waiting, his lips ghosting across Dongwoo’s face.  He tries to study him, dark eyes like the thickest night under the sky, soft skin befitting of a newborn, olive in complexion and radiating like the hottest sun ever to rise in his days.

“You’re beautiful.”

It’s stupid, but it’s honest, and Howon feels like he’s never said it enough anyways.  He knows he’s never said it enough by the way Dongwoo averts his eyes, looking down to the left, the red creeping up his cheeks like the first time he confessed all those years ago.

Howon can never predict the other; one moment he’s demanding, commanding him in a power that could stir the strongest gale, and then the next he’s timid, benevolent, a gentle breeze of spring air.

Dongwoo moves, and Howon throws his head back, gasping as Dongwoo rocks forwards and backwards, rubbing their bodies together.  His patience wears thin, and he becomes increasingly irritated with the slow progress.  A curse slips out of his lips, and there’s a struggle in a mess of limbs before he’s pulled his shirt off over his head, Dongwoo helping rid him of all his remaining clothing.  He lies naked on the bed with Dongwoo still fully dressed over him, fighting off his arms from undressing him.

“Watch,” and Dongwoo throws Howon back down on the bed, his hand straying to the bedside as quick as lightening, before he straightens his back and starts sliding over Howon again, fabric on skin, pressing his hips in circles, enjoying every gasp and moan that he draws out of Howon’s mouth.  The heat is engulfing him, creeping up from all around and pooling in between his legs, his mind drifting into a blank, the room becoming hazy and distant from his vision.

Suddenly he feels the heat disappear, and it takes too long for his brain to process what’s happening as his mind still floats in a fog of pleasure.  He tries calming his heart, his eyes boring into the blank ceiling above him, an unfocused blur of white and black dots.  When he does finally look in front of him, he sees Dongwoo bare, all skin, his lips pursed in focus and his face scrunched in pleasure.  He feels as if he’s been jolted by a clasp of thunder when he sees Dongwoo’s hand behind his back.  Howon takes the responsibility of molding his own fingers into Dongwoo’s thigh, then working on his length, pressing him and wringing him roughly.

That’s when Dongwoo finally gives him a glance, a coy smile playing on his lips, a breath of life into the long night.  He bends down slowly, gracefully, lean and taut muscles moving under sweat glistening skin, his hands clamping onto Howon’s arms underneath him. 

Howon knows he’s dragging it out, stretching the hands of the clock as much as he could, afraid of the morning to come.  But Howon needed this; he had to memorize every feel and touch of this man, every gasp and moan, every laugh and sob that put life and reason into Howon’s lone being.

“Baby, _please_ ,” and proud Howon begs, begs like always for Dongwoo.

“Promise me something,” and Dongwoo’s barely keeping himself from rutting over him, his palms flat on Howon’s chest, pushing him down with firm arms, keeping him put.  And Howon’s finding it hard to think in a straight line, but he listens anyways, sputtering out a half-moan of _what_.

 Dongwoo’s in his ear, a sob bubbling out from his throat, pleading with him to come back, and it takes all of Howon’s willpower not to bury himself into him right then and there.  He wasn’t good with words, he couldn’t tell him what he wanted to, so instead he decides to show him, show him and hope that Dongwoo understands him like he always does.  They’ve had many nights together before, and each and every single time Howon swears a piece of Dongwoo finds its way into the red box of his chest, warming it as he locks it safely away.  Tonight though, tonight he was sure that pieces of Dongwoo had found their way into his bloodstream, under his eyes, into every stretch of thought in a way that he was sure he would never forget.

When dawn finally starts to break, Howon’s still awake, staring at the mirror, their reflection staring back at him, a still frame of time.  He looks to the man nestled in his arms, and he knows—he’s been a martyr for love tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Nights by Fun


	3. Dangerous

This time, Dongwoo had really fucked up.  It was enough that he called in himself for a session.  He just needed to talk it over, and with someone who would actually _listen_ to him.

He sat in the neat office, waiting patiently for his therapist to come in; it was quite understandable, since he called in so late at night, when the office is supposedly closed.  While waiting for the doctor to meet him, he studied the small office quietly.  Black leather seatings, small wooden statues adorning the half-empty shelves lined up against the walls, and a large oak desk that stood underneath the only glass window in the walls—it was tidy, simple, easy to break down and analyze.  He stood up gingerly, trudging softly to the desk and picking up the placard engraved with _Dr. Lee_ across.  He runs his fingers across the name tenderly, protective instinct washing over him like the crash of a tidal wave hitting the shore. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have come.  Maybe he shouldn’t have ran away from that place either.  His thoughts are cut short when he hears the door open gently, the odd doctor himself with keys in hand, no coat on this late, only in a simple black shirt with matching black pants. How a man dressed so simply, and yet looked so elegant made Dongwoo’s blood tingle, little jolts of electricity running across his skin.  The doctor hadn’t noticed him there, and he’s closing the door behind him while he holds onto a stack of papers that Dongwoo figured was probably his file.  His hand was reaching for the light switch, when Dongwoo’s voice startled him from behind in the room.

“Don’t turn them on Howon.”

The doctor jumps in his skin, the shock evident on his face.

“How did you get in here?”

Dongwoo briskly walks from behind his desk to the couch, seating himself in his usual spot.  “They’re watching me Howon.”

The doctor seemed to have composed himself, slowly making his way to the couch facing Dongwoo.

“It’s Dr. Lee.”

“You’re the only person that believes me, so I came here to help you.”

“Help _me_?”

He sounded genuinely surprised, and Dongwoo became even more determined.  He rubs his sweaty palms together, his eyes throwing quick glances at the door, then back to the window, and again to Howon in front of him.

Howon notices his pattern, and takes a slow breath.  “Let me remind you of our office policy before we start then.  Everything we speak of here strictly remains between me and you.  No one else can hear us, and our conversations cannot be used in any court cases.  Now,” and he shifts in his seat, bending forwards like he always does before they begin their sessions. “You said this was an exigent situation.  What seems to be bothering you?”

He looks up, scanning Dongwoo’s face, as if trying to read him.  Unlike most patients, he actually finds that scrutiny quite encouraging.

“They’re coming onto me Howon.  They’ve been watching me, everywhere I go, it’s like they know everything I’m thinking.  How could they know what’s been going through my mind?”

Howon pauses, brings his palms together, sliding them against each other in the same motion, forwards and backwards, repeatedly.  Dongwoo knows he’s thinking of an answer.   He always does that when he’s thinking of something to say.

“Well, it’s quite natural to think that others are reading your thoughts, but…it could just be that you have started to express them more openly.  Maybe from things you’ve said at a grocery store, from your neighbor, from your waiter, a lot can be revealed from very few things you say.  Or even from the way you look.”

Dongwoo narrows his eyes, thinking back on the past week since he had devised his plan.  Could he have slipped up somewhere?  Had he spoken anything that might have given him away?  He was pretty sure he had taken all the necessary precautions, and making mistakes was not typical for him at all.  He watches Howon in front of him, his heart brimming again at the man.  In its own twisted sense, care and obsession have molded into something entirely new.

“I’ve decided.”

The doctor looks confused, his thick eyebrows knotting together.  “Decided what?”

“I need to disappear,” and for the first time in three years, Dongwoo is the one to bend forward, landing his intense gaze right into Howon’s bulging orbs.

“Dongwoo, I think that’s a very rash decision. We haven’t talked that over anything yet, so why don’t we just slow down a bit, okay?”

This was a new side of Howon that Dongwoo hadn’t seen before—was he seeing Howon _fret_? Or was that _guilt_?

“Why are you wearing black?” Dongwoo pressed, needing a confirmation.

Howon sighs for some reason, his eyes averting away to the ground.  He knew that he had to answer Dongwoo’s questions to even get the conversation started.

“I was at a funeral.”

“For who?”

“I thought we were talking about you, not me.”

“We’ve talked about you too before.”

For that, Howon stays quiet.  He’s told Dongwoo before, many things he probably shouldn’t have said, but Dongwoo was quite a normal guy granted his condition.

He says it quietly, reluctantly, in a way you’d spill a secret.  “They said she killed herself.  They found her dead in her apartment a few days ago.”

Dongwoo didn’t even blink. 

“Why do you sound so sad? You said she broke your heart.”

Howon nods slightly, missing all the signs.  “Yes, but I also said some other things too.  I can’t help but think that part of that might’ve been my fault too...  Dongwoo, look, I’m really tired tonight.  I do want to help you, so please don’t do anything reckless until we talk properly over whatever’s bothering you.”

Dongwoo laughs, loud and abrupt and _completely_ unexpected.  He never fails to place that puzzled look on Howon’s face.

“If you’re thinking that by disappear I meant I was going to try ending my life, you’re quite wrong.  I have a lot more work to do before that day comes.”

Howon tilts his head, trying to shake his own feelings off the table, a slight hint of embarrassment flushing up his cheeks. 

“You know sometimes Dongwoo, I really don’t know what to think of you.”

It makes Dongwoo smile, but it makes Howon sweat.

“How about we talk in the morning?  I’ll see you first thing in the morning before anyone else.”

Dongwoo stands up, already three steps ahead of doctor.  “Sure.  Let me take you home at least.”

Howon politely tries to decline, but Dongwoo reminds him he doesn’t have a vehicle of his own, and the next bus will take two hours at least.  It doesn’t sit well with the doctor, but he finally agrees, too tired from the day’s events to really bother whether he’s crossing a line or not.  For all he can think of, he’s probably passed over professionalism a long time ago with Dongwoo—there was just no other way to get him to open up without Howon laying his own cards down on the table first. 

Outside, it’s a black, mid-size pickup, with a strange arraignment of tools sitting in the bed.  Inside the cab, Howon’s awed by how meticulously clean it was. 

Dongwoo’s started the engine, the distinct sound of diesel blaring, sending a whiff to Howon’s senses. 

“It’s very clean…”

“I think ahead.” He smiles at Howon, knowing that he won’t understand, and drives on anyways through the dark night.

Howon fidgets around, nonchalantly commenting on the pickup.  He opens the glove box out of curiosity, finding a clipbook inside.

“Is this your journal?”

Dongwoo doesn’t answer.

Howon takes the liberty of opening it, thinking it might help him understand this odd patient of his.  He flips through the pages, one by one, and slow realization of what he’s looking at makes his blood turn to ice.

“It probably would have been better if you hadn’t opened that, Howon.”

There were pictures of her, pictures even Howon himself didn’t have.  Pictures of after she left him, pictures of the place she worked at, pictures of her favorite spot to eat, pictures of what looked like her final hours.  Cold sweat runs down Howon’s forehead, his fingers sneaking their way to the side of the door while a dark cloud of silence consumes the cab. 

Dongwoo was still driving, and Howon prayed that he would be too busy looking at the road in front of him while he tried to escape—someway, somehow.  Even if he hurled himself off the moving vehicle, he’d still have a chance.  A chance he wants to take. 

He jerks while he pulls the lock, heaving with all his force to open the door, only for his heart to drop in chest when it doesn’t even budge.  His fingers are slowly shaking, thoughts racing through his mind at a hundred miles.

“Dongwoo, unlock the doors.”

Dongwoo, his face looking solemn, keeps his hands on the wheel.

“Don’t worry Howon.  I got a plan for us.”

Howon finally sees the glazed eyes, small breaths coming out of Dongwoo’s lips in a chant, and he finally realized how mistaken he was about the man next to him.

_I bet you didn’t know I was this dangerous.  I bet you didn’t know someone could love you this much._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dangerous by Big Data


	4. Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

_Tuesday_

 

It would be impossible to guess who was more enraged than the other.  Dongwoo had been seething like water in a boiling kettle, and Howon had been bubbling red in his skin as he tried to toe around Dongwoo’s searing glares.  It’s hard to remember what had started the argument this time--something from yesterday probably.  Something building up from the past week more likely.

 

_Wednesday_

 

They don’t talk the whole day.  They wander around aimlessly; one a relentless ghost and the other a subtle shadow.

 

_Thursday_

 

Dongwoo comes back to the apartment to spend an hour in the shower, letting the water run down his back, soothing him.  When he hears the bathroom door open he doesn’t really mind--to some point, he’s relieved.  Then when he takes the towel and sits on the tile naked, Howon leaning against the door with that look on his face--and he feels even more relieved.  

Dongwoo doesn’t say anything, and by himself, Howon steps forward, drying dongwoo’s hair, running his fingers softly in circles over dongwoo’s back. It’s all okay.

 

_Friday_

 

It was quite abrupt.  Dongwoo had been in the kitchen, a mug of tea in one hand, the other raking through his hair as he adjusted to the early morning. Howon had come in, just in his boxers, leaning on the counter next to him silently, watching him.  He barely had time to put his mug down before they clashed together, kissing like they haven’t in days, clawing like they’re angry and relieved at the same time.  All the tension of the week erupts, spewing and melting as Dongwoo grasps onto the man in front of him, pressing his nails so deep into the skin until little red crescents were printed in their place.  Howon pushes back, hoisting Dongwoo up on the counter while Dongwoo scrapes at his bare back, the taut muscles of his shoulder blades firm and steady as they held him on the counter.  

They were a mess and they knew it--but right now everything seemed forgotten, neatly packed and stored somewhere in the back of their minds like old boxes thrown in an attic.  

He’s lapping on Dongwoo’s tongue, prying his mouth open in a frantic rush to taste him as they push and pull together, gears jammed trying to set back in motion again.  Dongwoo digs his fingers into Howon’s scalp, as if to hold onto him, to keep him anchored by his side.  It barely lasts, his grip slipping as he lets out a moan, Howon knowing exactly where to touch without looking, without breaking the whirlwind of a kiss they had flung themselves into.  Dongwoo holds his head back, his mouth glistening wet, lips red and swollen while his eyes fluttered between closing and staying open, either lost in a daze or suffering from withdrawal.  His hands are barely holding him upright, now clutched around the back of Howon’s suntanned neck.

There’s hands--strong, calloused hands, rummaging around his body, sliding up his chest and across his nipples, the dry skin chafing against the blunt fingers.  Then his shirt goes up, his grip loosening as Howon hauls the shirt over his head, leaving the both of them in just boxers now under the dim kitchen light.  

Howon had never lost his pace.  His fingers were always quick, always warm, and always _relentless_ , finding the small of his back this time as he bent his head, leaning in to Dongwoo’s left side, ghosting kisses across his ribs till he reaches a perking pink, his tongue darting out to brush along the top.  

There’s a certain high that can be reached from submerging in intoxicating sensations of the body.  The wetness on his chest, the hand palming and tugging, sliding and slipping between his legs now like fire scorching the sides of his thighs. Howon’s hands scald the sensitive skin, leaving red fingerprints on the insides, and Dongwoo feels himself writhing in a drunkard pleasure that only Howon can drag out of him.  The beats start pumping faster in his chest, the little drum throbbing against his ribcage in an attempt to jump out, and Dongwoo lets out a strangled gasp as Howon bites down on the inside of his thigh. He’s panting already, dizzy and lightheaded as Howon finally goes down on him, little whines and whimpers filling the small kitchen air with the slosh and squelch of a sopping mouth.

Dongwoo knew he was already nine feet deep in Howon’s touches. So when Howon nudges his chest, Dongwoo leans back, the awkward feel of the kitchen counter on his bare spine only passing his mind for a moment before he lets his legs hang open, hands reaching out to his sides to grasp onto something, trying to hold his sanity in pieces scattered across his body.

In some sense, however, there’s a difference between drowning, and drowning endlessly without finality.  If Howon’s touches felt like plunging in the sea to drown, then Howon inside of him felt like trying to drown and never succeeding. His body loses all control, the gasps and huffs spilling out of his lips continuously, the skin of his back rubbing against the cold surface counter while Howon moved above him.  

There’s a warm breath on his neck, soft lips pressing under his ear, coercing him to turn his head.  They try a sloppy kiss, mouths open, teeth clinking once, and then Dongwoo stops trying because he’s too busy trying to breathe.  Howon’s completely leaned on him now, chest heavy and crushing on top of his own, hands still clamped on Dongwoo’s hips, bringing him back each time he thrusted forward in rapid little snaps.

He can’t remember the last time Howon had touched him like this--this frenzied, this desperate.  The thought almost makes him want to cry, so he lifts his hands, reaching around Howon’s neck, interlocking his fingers as he holds onto him, holds onto their crumbling relationship like sands slipping through his hands.

When he screams, it faintly sounds like Howon’s name crashing out of his lips.

 

_Saturday_

 

The normality of life seems to have found it’s way back to them.  They’re busy, of course, but Dongwoo finds the time to send soft texts to Howon, and Howon finds the time to reply.  He even takes Dongwoo out to eat dinner that night, holding his hand as they walked through the busy night streets of downtown.

 

_Sunday_

 

Howon feels like he owns the world.  In his arms, Dongwoo sleeps effortlessly, his face calm and peaceful.  Like lazy morning clouds they drift together through the day, hinged on each other, swaying like clothes out on the line hung up to dry in a gentle breeze. Almost like nothing will break them apart.  Almost.

 

_Monday_

 

The peaceful truce lasts till the evening night.  Biting remarks start prickling, patience wearing thin while a storm brews outside.  Battlescar wounds are shown in clear rivers down their faces again, and they’re both dancing around the room while the glass breaks and the shouts rise from beneath the ground, once swearing and once promising in voices lost to the roar of the wind.

  
The week cycles again, and they’re still slow dancing in their burning room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow Dancing in a Burning Room by John Mayor


	5. Faces in Silver

It sits in the corner of his room, towering in silver from a wooden throne. It has raised him from a boy to a fine young man, his smile like rays of the sun falling on the forest leaves outside. On some days, it sits quietly in the corner of the room, waiting patiently for him to return and gaze his eyes into the glass again.

There are times when he stands in a daze, his eyes somewhere else, reciting the image of a man he wishes to see, adoringly sharing his deepest secrets with it in the middle of night when no one else can watch. He asks with hesitation in his words, do you think he likes me too? 

The silence makes him sigh, his warm breath tainting the perfect image in front of him, and the young man gets lost in a fog of thoughts. 

Day by day, night by night, it watches those hazel eyes boring into cold glass, the moon caressing his skin from the bedroom window like a mother watching over a child, and it still devotedly paints the face it cherishes so much after all his years. When one face turns to two, a crack creeps down one of its corners, and now the young man ignores it, placing shining silver into his pocket instead.

“You don’t need that,” the second face tells those hazel eyes, and they burn in such ambiance of lies that soon enough make the crack slither farther down the clear road that stands ahead. There are nights when it watched both faces burn together in a passion it can never reflect, and times when it watched one face darken to a disappearing shadow while the other sat in sorrow in that same corner yet again, waiting for him to come back. 

Despite the time, despite the changing faces, it remained in its corner, waiting patiently against the wall while the wood embracing it began to age, and the face it had watched all those years began to wrinkle like olives off a tree. One calm night, when the hazel eyes came to grace upon it again, it showed him the truth--the same eyes still shone clearly through the glass, and a reminiscence of that same smile slid back onto that face. He held a white sheet in his hand, and began to bury it underneath, marking its grave in that corner. As he tucked the wood underneath the sheet, he whispered his final words to the beloved on the wall, “I have someone to tell me the truth now.”

Away the man with the hazel eyes went, and the walls rang with silence of the empty room now. It sat contently underneath the white, gray starting to cloud its sight as it picked up the passage of time until one day--one day a new face will bring it back to life, and another boy will grow to a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mirror


	6. My Type

The money’s in the suitcase by his legs and Howon’s already starting to relax. The man across him is charming, almost seducing, and Howon knows he shouldn’t be falling for him. 

“I’ve missed you a lot Howon,” his voice is so delicate, and Howon’s heart explodes. “You know how I feel about you..”

Of course Howon knows, he’s listened to the man’s confession before and a blast of colors sprays across his sky. He pictures a vivid image of passion and faith, happiness and longing. All Howon had to do was turn his heart over to him.

Howon smiles, picking up the suitcase and placing it on the table to show the money. Bundles of green neatly stacked up, a hefty sum that definitely needs dirty hands to come across.

Dongwoo smiles, and Howon could only smile back. He almost means it. A fork drops to the floor, and Howon bends down under the table to retrieve it alongside his senses. 

A quick glance to Dongwoo’s legs is all he needs to see the gun strapped tightly to his thigh. He stumbles a little bit, slowly getting back up as he pushes his glasses from the rim of his nose. There were definitely others around, and he was too drunk in love to even notice. He stands up straight, closing the suitcase quickly and watching the smile drop from Dongwoo’s face. 

“See you around,” and Howon tries to get away, but he’s already cornered; he turns back around to find Dongwoo with a gun to his head. 

Of course, it was obvious a mile away.

Dongwoo tears the fake hair off Howon’s face, snatching the unnecessary glasses just to see Howon’s true look for once. The satisfaction plastered across Dongwoo’s face only roused Howon more.

He replays the scene in his head again and again, staring out the iron bars of his cell. His object of obsession was sitting on his desk across the room, working hard for all the wrong reasons. Howon feels proud, proud at his little crush in how determined and devoted he was. But he’s just too good at what he does, and maybe too many steps ahead of determined officer Jang Dongwoo. 

Hours later the officer’s head is drooping, sleep taking over his senses and Howon smirks, knowing it’s time. He hasn’t even spent a night in his cell before he’s out and walking about, ready for the chase to kick off again.

His heart wasn’t that easy to catch in the first place after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Type by Saint Motel


End file.
